


New Souls

by Gemi



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Found Family, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Realistic Minecraft, Swearing, Tags May Change, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28791033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemi/pseuds/Gemi
Summary: They don't age.Not like the people in those villages, at least. They do not age as time passes. They are not born tiny and helpless, and they don’t die and stay dead like everything else. Phil never managed to solve the riddle as to why, but he knows it’s split across worlds. Has traveled through enough of them to know.Despite that, he still didn't expect that he would end up adopting others like him.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 75





	1. Wilbur

They do not age. 

Not like the people in those villages, at least. They do not age as time passes. They are not born tiny and helpless, and they don’t die and stay dead like everything else. Phil never managed to solve the riddle as to why, but he knows it’s split across worlds. Has traveled through enough of them to know. 

Traveled enough to age, as much as someone like them can. Not gradually, like the villagers stuck in one world forever, stuck with their one chance at life. Phil ages with just a stutter forward for every world he manages to get to.

He never met anyone else travelling worlds like he did. Heard of them. Never met them. There are consequences to it, after all, other than aging one world at a time. He is stuck with _his_ one life now. Knows it, deep inside, and knows it from experience. Phil knows he will never die, not truly, but a death means he can’t return to the world that killed him.

It means he cannot let himself _die_. Not here. 

He has family in this world.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The first time he found a son, he was new to the world. 

He had only just arrived, wings heavy as lead on his back from the long journey, a relief to fold away, to hide them away. But it was an untouched world, that much had been clear the moment he arrived. No other outsider had reached it- though Phil suspected some new souls may have been recently created in it. They simply hadn’t had time to grow yet, to shape the land to their whims.

Part of the deal of world travel was that one could not bring items from other worlds. They tended to turn into ash on arrival, with the strange exception of clothing and bags. Phil would never fully understand the odd rules of the universe- he could only learn to adapt. To create his own routines, many as they were now.

Practice had made it easier to find villages upon arrival. Not _always_ , however- and this was one of the rare times he had failed to do so. But the clearing he had landed in was a nice one. Filled with wildflowers of all kinds of colors, the sun warm against his skin as he took off his robes and stuffed them into his bag, empty as it was. It was simply too warm to bother with layers.

It had felt a bit strange. He had only just left a place covered in snow, after all. Going from heavy, fur lined robes to short sleeves and a hat more for the shade than to keep warm was an adjustment. But Phil was good at that. It was part of the excitement, part of why he kept travelling. 

He gathered wildberries that he recognized from past worlds, deeming them safe. Took twigs and tree bark for a future campfire. Found a stream of clear water and scooped it into his hands to drink. It was cold but refreshing, and Phil patted wet hands against the back of his neck, just to feel the chill of it. Briefly considered if he should wash up, sweaty and grimy from the journey, or if he should save that for the next day.

Still crouched, he did not expect a yell from behind him.

He leapt to his feet, but by then it was too late. Phil watched dumbly as a shape rolled past him and down the hill only to come to a loud, splashing stop in the stream. An undignified squawk escaped it, except he could now see what it was. 

A boy; a very gangly looking boy, late teens or early adult perhaps, all legs and floppy brown hair, with previously brand new, simple clothes now soaking wet.

He felt his lips twitch. 

“Oh no,” the boy whined and clumsily flopped about. As if he could not quite figure out how to handle slippery rocks and heavy clothes. Even the words seemed new coming from him, clumsy and childish, as if he was still trying to figure out how to feel about them.

“You alright there, mate?” Phil asked and crouched down again. Grinned as the boy blinked. Stared back at him, mouth agape. Brown eyes, Phil noted, and waited patiently for the poor guy’s brain to respond.

Those brown eyes lit up.

“Hello!” he replied, delighted, and renewed his attempts to get out of the stream, “Hi! I’m Wilbur!”

“Hello there, Wilbur. I’m Philza, though you can call me Phil. You new?” he asked, and finally, when Wilbur managed to at least flop closer, Phil grabbed his arm and yanked him up and out of the stream. It only made the boy laugh even though he immediately fell back down to the ground. The impact made a wet, squishy sound escape from his soaked form.

Said boy, Phil realized, was probably taller than himself. Figures.

“New? I don’t know, maybe,” Wilbur said, and held out his arms. “I don’t like this,” he told Phil, “It’s very bad.”

“Yeah, wet clothes aren’t nice,” Phil agreed. “You should take them off. Let them dry.”

Wilbur tilted his head.

“Off?”

“Oh, you’re _very_ new,” he chuckled and reached out to tug on Wilbur’s sweater. Mustard yellow wool, heavy and uncomfortable for their surroundings even when not wet. “This. You can take it off.”

“Oh! How fun,” Wilbur said and then let Phil enjoy the comedy of watching a new soul try to figure out how to escape clothing. 

It was way too funny. 

Because it _must_ have been Wilbur’s very first time alive; his limbs were uncoordinated, no doubt the reason why he had come rolling down the hill. He had not even realized he could remove his _sweater_ , for Prime’s sake, and it showed. He squirmed about on the ground like a very excited worm at first, then flopped about, smearing mud and grass stains into the wet fabric, even his face. There was a pause where he was spitting and making the strangest, most upset noises as he got some of it in his mouth.

Phil didn’t bother hiding his laughter. Wilbur was new; the sound only delighted him, the way new things delighted most new souls. The grin he gifted Phil was endearing, even if there _was_ grass stuck to his teeth now.

The sweater did get removed, though. Eventually it was thrown off with a wet squelch after a worthy battle, and Wilbur collapsed to the ground in exhausted victory.

“I won,” the boy gloated, and Phil laughed again.

“You sure did,” he teased and gave the white undershirt a tug, “You can keep this one on, it’s thin. Will dry in the sun.”

“Mmhm I see. Yes. Dry in the sun. Philza, Phil. Are you also wet?”

“Nah, mate. I’m dry. Got a bit more control over my legs than you,” he chuckled and wiped his hands dry against his pants, sitting down properly to keep Wilbur company. The new soul seemed happy to simply lay there for now. “You just woke up? I mean, you’re new, yeah?”

“I think so,” Wilbur said, “walking is awfully hard, you know.”

“I remember,” he replied, because he did. Not very _well_ \- his earliest memories had grown fuzzy and distant, but he remembered that first time waking up from wherever they all came from. Filled with excitement and confusion as he tried to figure out how to work his limbs, to gather materials. The other souls Phil had met in other worlds said the same thing- they began with a desire to explore and hoard, no matter what. And very uncoordinated limbs to keep track of.

Wilbur hummed happily. He was not laying completely still, always moving just a little bit. Wiggling. Digging his fingers into the grass, sticking his tongue out for who knows what reason. Wrinkling his nose and smacking his lips before going back to humming.

Phil wondered how much easier things would have been, if he had someone to guide him at the start. 

Certainly less deaths. 

“You wanna keep me company?” he asked, because why not? It would make everything that bit newer. He had never had company like this before. Never met such a _new_ soul, only ever ran into the more settled ones. Those who knew what they were doing. “I was thinking about making a camp near here. Could teach you how to start a fire.”

Wilbur turned his face towards Phil and blinked. The content smile spread into a bright grin. 

“Sure!” he said, and Phil grinned back.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Wilbur _was_ taller than Phil. 

It made quite the comedic sight, no doubt. A gangly, young looking man who could barely walk in a straight line next to a thirty year old looking one who was at least a head shorter and far more steady in his approach. But it was a breath of fresh air; Phil explained everything he did and why as they began to explore the world, and Wilbur eagerly listened.

And sang.

He liked to do that, apparently. Making up random songs that often went nowhere, abandoned in favor of a new discovery. Phil needed to get him some kind of instrument. A flute, maybe a guitar. Something easy to carry with him. It was always good to encourage talents. And Wilbur was _very_ talented for someone so new. But for now, it would have to wait. 

They kept the campfire for two nights before they left. 

Wilbur had begun to grow more steady on his feet, so Phil deemed it safe enough to start walking. Had asked Wilbur to show him where he woke up that first time, and Phil made sure to memorize the spot. Deaths were messy, and not always predictable but- but if Phil could not find Wilbur, then he knew to check that area. 

They traveled.

The forest was a kind one. Few monsters lurked underneath the tree leafs, and the one that did were easy to avoid as Phil told Wilbur in hushed tones why, exactly, one should not go up and say hi to the strange, decaying people. There were berries aplenty, as well as fruit to pick, which was a relief. Phil knew he needed to teach Wilbur how to hunt, but he would prefer to avoid that for a bit longer.

It was a good skill, but… Wilbur was so very _new_.

They did need to get him new clothes, though. The thick sweater had been stuffed into Phil’s bag once it was dried, too warm for the climate, but the rest of Wilbur’s clothes weren’t much better. His shirt was white and flimsy and constantly stained by whatever Wilbur decided to examine. His pants were a bit too tight, a good fit but perhaps not the best to run in. His shoes- well. They seemed more fitting for cobblestone paths and fancy houses than the wilderness. 

So Wilbur needed proper boots and a cloak or some other kind of garment that could protect him from the elements. Armor, too, and Phil began to gently bully Wilbur into practicing how to use a simple wooden sword every night before they went to bed. The young man whined about it and whined more when he hurt the next day from exercises he had never had to learn before. But he was not _bad_ , picking up on things a bit quicker than Phil had anticipated. Enough that he would be able to hold off a zombie or two, which was hopefully long enough to let Phil swoop in and help him before it was too late.

The progress did not stop Wilbur from whining.

Which was understandable, of course. Learning how to fight was very different from simply walking. Whining was understandable, even expected. Except Wilbur had begun to explore words. Sentences. How to say things his way, instead of trying out words as if he was tasting them.

Phil quickly learned that Wilbur was, perhaps, not quite right in the head. Or at least had the strangest sense of humor he had ever come across, to the point he often wasn’t sure what was a joke and what was not. 

“Phil,” Will whined, “I want to shove it up my nose. I want it up my _nose_ , Philza.”

“What!?”

  
  
“Up the _nose_ ,” Wilbur repeated, and gestured with the sword, “I want it up my nose! Splinters!”

“You want the, what, the _sword_ up your nose? Mate,” Phil said, not even sure if he was asking, all he knew was that he was bewildered. “Will, I don’t think it would _fit_.”

“I will make it fit. I have big nostrils, I can make it happen.”

“They’re pretty small, actually.”

“I will _make_ them bigger,” Wilbur insisted, “Get the splinters up in there, be- be like a- a thing. With nose horn. Yes!”

“Do you talk to someone when I’m asleep or some shit?” Phil couldn’t help but ask, because _what_ . “You’re not putting anything up your _nose_ , Wilbur. Especially not a fucking _sword?”_

Said sword had seen better days. Being covered in snot would _not_ improve it, of that he was certain. 

Wilbur wrinkled his nose.

“It’s wood,” he said, “It’s not _sharp_. Better in my nose than my hands. I hate this. This is boring.”

“Well, life is boring sometimes. And this is something you _need_ to learn, if you want to avoid injuries or, you know, death.” 

Wilbur stared blankly at him. 

“Death?” he asked, tasting the word, and Phil groaned and pressed his hands against his face, because _of course_.

“Can’t fucking believe I need to give you the death talk.”

“The _what?”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


Wilbur declared death very much fake and melodramatic and messy and did not approve of it at all. 

“It’s going to happen at some point, Will,” he had tried to point out. It always did- the world was dangerous, and new souls had many lives for a reason. 

“No,” Wilbur said, stubborn as always, “No, it’s not. Fake bullshit. Like those anteaters we saw.” 

Phil groaned and regretted everything as Wilbur, predictably, went into another rant about just why those strange creatures had no reason to exist the way they did.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The first village they ever came across was at the edge of the forest. It was a big one, with trading roads leading to others and as many as four iron guardians lumbering around. The villagers spoke in the language they all seemed to speak, no matter the world. Something that Phil could _almost_ understand, but never quite enough. He had tried. It just wasn’t possible. He counted himself lucky he had picked up on _some_ words at least. 

The villagers sent them curious looks as they passed, but did not approach. Phil was grateful for that because Wilbur needed extra attention.

The young man walked tall and proud these days, no longer uncoordinated but still with a certain bounce to his step. Only two weeks had passed, perhaps three at most if he was feeling generous. But when one was brand new, two weeks without seeing anyone but the two of them could be a bit of a shock when it finally happened.

And it was a _big_ village.

So Phil kept a careful eye on Wilbur as he bartered for gear, for supplies; watched Will watch the villagers, eyes wide and face oddly neutral. Not yet having made up his mind, perhaps, on how to feel about having so many people around them so suddenly. People that had a distinctly different feel to them than Phil and Will. It was not that Phil was _worried_ \- it was simply a strange feeling to have Will be so quiet. Ever since they met, the young soul had been talking and singing, even sleep brought nonsensical mumbling. Seeing Wilbur closed off and pressed close to Phil, as if seeking comfort, was just. Strange.

Probably the strangest part was wanting to hug him close, honestly. But they needed supplies, and if Wilbur wanted a hug, he would ask for it. The guy hadn’t exactly developed embarrassment yet. 

They left the village with new clothes and sturdy boots for Wilbur, and made camp not long after. From their spot, they could see the village torches like pinpricks of warmth, piercing the darkness. 

Philza was not at all surprised when Wilbur asked.

“Are they different from us?” he asked, fiddling with the sleeves of his new coat, dark brown and practical. It had a flair to it, though, which Phil had hoped would please the melodramatic streak Wilbur was quickly developing. 

“Yup,” Phil said and ladled potato soup into wooden bowls, nudging Will’s hands with one until the distracted youth accepted it, “Very.”

“Some of them were very small.”

_That_ had been funny to see. Wilbur seeing little children for the first time; he had looked horrified and intrigued all at once, and then pouted as he watched said children play games he wanted to play, too, but which Phil had said they had no time for. Not that Phil thought the kids would have _let_ him join. Bit of an unfair advantage, that, what with those gangly legs. But Phil had learnt to never spend too long in villages, and so they had gone and no ball games had been played. 

“Those were children. Ah, watch your tongue, mate, it’s still hot.”

Wilbur blew loudly at the soup. Not for long enough, and Phil snickered as Wilbur took a bite too early, proceeding to try and inhale cool air instead, as if that would somehow help. He looked like a chipmunk doing it. 

“Children?” Will finally said once he got the food down, and Phil nodded. “Even those- the bundles?” 

“Yeah, children too. Though they call them babies when they’re that small.” 

“What’s the point of them?”

“I dunno. They look like that, until they grow up. Reproduction. Remember how I explained the bees we passed?”

“So… they’re the larvae of… those people?” Wilbur frowned, looking quite disturbed. “Did I use to look like that?”

“Nah,” Phil chuckled as he stirred his spoon around, trying to get the good bits. They always ended up at the bottom. “That’s one of our differences. You were created the way you are. Won’t age for a long time, if ever.”

Wilbur seemed to consider this for a while. Phil focused on his food, patiently waiting for whatever questions would pour out soon enough. Remembered what the trader had called them. Crafters. 

Every world seemed to have a different word for them. It was why Phil preferred to just say _souls_ , instead. Easier to keep track of. But _crafter_ was fitting. Not the worst one he had heard.

“They were very disturbing,” Wilbur said, and Phil choked on laughter and soup, which _clearly_ had been Will’s intent because when Phil sent him a teary eyed look, he was only met with a shit-eating grin.

“Fucker,” Phil wheezed, “that’s gonna be your sense of humor? Shit, gods.” He coughed into his arm. Wilbur cackled. 

“No, but _really_ ,” Wilbur said once the worst of Phil’s near death experience passed, “they _were_ really strange. Is that why the air around them felt weird, too? Because they start out as- as _larvae?”_

“Oh, it gets worse. Or weirder, I guess.”

“What? _How?”_

  
“Remember the death stuff I told you about?”

“It’s messy, painful, fake and I might end up where I started and I have to sit and wait for you if I do?”

“Yup. Well, they don’t do that.”

Wilbur wrinkled his nose.

“Die?”

“Come back,” Phil said, and put down his now empty bowl. He would make Wilbur clean them, later. As revenge. “They die and stay dead. They’re also not as strong as us, and have less endurance. Don’t heal as fast, can’t make stuff the way we do. Likes to stay in one spot for their whole life.” Didn’t even explore the outside boundaries of their settlements. Simply stayed in their spot, which Phil had _never_ been able to understand. Neither did Wilbur, apparently, going on the increasingly baffled expression.

“ _Really?_ Ever? But- the world, Phil! The world! They don’t want to _see_ it?” he demanded, gesturing wildly around them, soup flying off the spoon. 

“Hey, don’t waste food! And yeah, nope. Never met any that did. They’re a bit boring that way but they can be useful. If you got the goods, they’re willing to trade you a ton of good stuff.” 

“Like my coat!” 

“Exactly,” Phil smiled and leaned back, watching Wilbur eat and think and send his coat a proud look every now and then. “They call us crafters. In this world, anyway.”

“Maybe I should make a song about them,” Wilbur considered, “about their weird larvae children. Think they would like it?”

“Uhhh. Think you should workshop it a bit, to be sure, before you sing it to them.”

“Hmm. Alright!”

It seemed like Wilbur had gotten his answers. No doubt more questions would come later, about villagers or something else. But for now they got comfortable by the fire, sheltered enough from view and elements alike that Phil felt it safe to sleep as well. Though he did so sitting up, just in case. 

It was as Wilbur began to mumble in his sleep, head resting in Phil’s lap as he absently ran his fingers through Will’s hair, that he realized he had failed to explain his own complicated relationship with death.

It was fine. He could explain it at some other time. 

Phil was not an easy man to kill.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They traveled. 

The forest became plains. The plains became mountains, and watching Wilbur experience everything for the first time was a gift that Phil had not known he wanted. Lava was fascinating, swimming was an endeavor that had Phil almost drowning from laughing too much, mining became several heart attacks in one as Wilbur constantly got distracted and wandered off into caves and ravines and abandoned dungeons. 

Through it all, Wilbur continued to grow. His personality became something easier to grasp rather than the fluffy cloud of joy and curiosity he had been when he first fell into the water, not so long ago. He developed a wit about him. Was creative and charismatic, a dry sharpness began to bleed into his jokes.

It was fascinating. Phil wondered how different _he_ was, from when he himself had first woken up. Did they all start the same? Excited and joyful and so very naive? How much of Phil’s influence had affected Wilbur’s increasingly sarcastic tones, his love for stories and words and what one could do with it all? Phil couldn’t claim to be that creative. Good at building shit, yeah, but not making up stories and songs at the snap of his fingers, not like Wilbur did constantly.

One thing Phil _did_ wish he could influence was the topic on armor.

“Just put it _on_ , Will,” he groaned, gesturing towards the pile of iron-made armor he had set down next to Wilbur. Wilbur, who had inched away from it with crossed arms and a sulking expression, “I’m not taking you with me into the cave without armor on, okay? Not after last time.” 

“It’s uncomfortable and restrictive,” Wilbur snapped back, “I will move easier without it!”

“Easier doesn’t matter if a creeper sneaks up on you, mate. Put it on, or stay here.”

“ _Urgh_.”

That had begun to happen more often, too. Wilbur questioning things were good, of course, Phil did not want him to grow into a biddable soul that simply followed everyone else- but some things were just sensible. The hatred against armor was not new, but the young soul had grown more vocal about it as time passed, more stubborn. 

Wilbur scowled at Phil. Phil glared back, because damn it, he was older by several fucking miles. He would not cave to a soul that was a mere few months old. Wilbur’s eyes narrowed in return before he looked around their camp, but Phil knew there was nothing of interest. There was the book they had picked up some weeks ago, but Will had read it enough times that he doubted it would hold any entertainment. Other than that, they had nothing that would keep Wilbur busy for the many hours Phil would spend exploring the cave.

Boredom was worse than armor.

“Thanks, Will,” he said and relaxed as Wilbur angrily began to put it all on, “Maybe you just need to wear it more often, get used to it.”

“Never,” was the huffed reply, “Help me, please.”

He chuckled and stepped up to help tighten the straps, making sure it all fit properly. Reached up to ruffle Wilbur’s hair, which thankfully was easy to do when Will automatically lowered his head for it. He truly was too tall, too stubborn. But he was Phil’s Will so he figured he could forgive him for that. 

“All done,” he told him, and then patted his arm. “C’mon, then. If we find diamonds, I’ll let you keep the first one, yeah?”

“... yeah, alright. I also call dibs on any books,” Wilbur said with a sigh as he began to follow Phil towards the caves, “I need a new one.”

“I’m sure we will soon enough. And it should be easy to trade in your current one for a new one in the next village, anyway.”  
  


“Trade in? I’m not doing _that_.”

  
“Mate, you can’t carry around a whole fucking library.”

And there it was; the proud smile, the glint in the eye that not even wearing armor could stifle. 

“Watch me,” Will said, “I’ll carry around a _whole_ fucking library, Phil.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


What had looked like a somewhat safe cave when Phil had given it a quick inspection turned out to be anything _but_ that. The tunnels were narrow at first, a passage that twisted and turned but never split up. That was good, it meant it was easy for Phil to take the lead, to cut down any monsters they encountered while Wilbur kept a careful distance from the mess of it. But it was also largely empty except for coal and iron deposits, and Phil had wanted to go into it to find something more useful. Something to perhaps help them finally settle down, their bags growing too heavy with everything useful they could not let go.

And to possibly build a library for Wilbur, of course, since the young soul apparently had the goal of owning one.

It grew far more difficult when the tunnel became tunnels. Splitting off, more and more, glimpses of lava, of caverns. Of tunnels and caves above them, perfect for a creeper to drop down from. For skeletons to rattle their bones as they took aim. 

Phil’s arms had begun to tremble. The shield felt heavier than ever, and he hated that he had not thought to give one to Will. It would have been the sensible thing to do, the fucking logical thing to do with how many arrows stuck out of it. 

Wilbur had cuts on his face from the arrows that weren’t stuck in the shield, narrowly missed but close enough that Will’s face was smeared with blood. He had begun to look more frayed around the edges as time went on and Phil couldn’t blame him. They needed to get out- he had found one diamond and some redstone, and that was it. It was not worth it.

Problem was, the way they came had become swarmed with the monsters. Zombies, decaying and filling the space with their sickly-sweet rotting scents. Creepers mingling in and out, at times eagerly approaching them, sizzling, the tunnels growing more unstable for every explosion. The damn skeletons.

“We need to dig our way up,” Phil said, barely raised his shield in time to take another arrow aimed at Wilbur. Will, behind him, just as cornered as Phil was. 

“What does that fucking mean?” 

“Dig- dig a hole. Once we’re both in it, block it off and we are just going to mine upwards, alright? Until we reach daylight.”

Wilbur giggled. It sounded on the edge of hysterical.

“Just mine upwards. Right, got it. Just- yeah. _Shit_.” 

Phil grunted as he took another arrow; the shield made a worrying sound, the wood splitting. He hissed a curse under his breath but- it would be fine. He could hear the sounds of Wilbur mining at the wall, iron meeting stone until the sound of rocks crumbling. As soon as that sound reached his ears, Phil backed up, pushing Wilbur into it, kicked a zombie away that had crawled close, missing its lower body. 

The moment they were in the hole, Wilbur pushed a large rock in front of it. Outside, the groans kept going. Soft, wet thuds as the zombies kept pushing themselves at the rock.

But it did not budge.

He sighed. Dropped his shield, finally, and his shoulders _ached_. Phil leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath. Could feel Wilbur’s weight at his side. Wasn’t sure which one of them was trembling; probably both of them, honestly. He sure felt like his limbs were made of jelly. 

“Must’ve been an abandoned dungeon or something,” Will mumbled in the darkness. Phil could feel him tug at his cloak, a nervous habit which Phil had never bothered to stop, even though Wilbur had a perfectly functional coat of his own to tug at, “since they just kept coming.”  
  


“Yeah.” 

They were silent for a moment. Catching their breaths, listening to the sounds outside that did not go away. But there would only be so much air for them to breathe for so long.

“Alright,” Phil said, and hefted his pickaxe, “Let’s dig.”

“What about…?” Wilbur asked, gestured towards the abandoned shield.

“Just gonna get in the way. Besides, it’s pretty much broken anyway,” he admitted, hoping he was smiling at Wilbur’s face. Shame neither of them had been created with any kind of darkvision. “We will do it in shifts, alright? You first.”

For once, there were no protests. Perhaps Wilbur suspected that it was taking everything Phil had to keep standing. He did nudge their shoulders together, however, before Phil closed his eyes and listened to Will begin to dig.

It was grueling work. They switched many times, muscles trembling, sweat dripping as they dug, dug and dug. There was the growing suspicion of them having ended up in the mountain’s middle, and that led to them making up awful names for said mountain. Swears and things one could never put down on a map without others judging, asking _why_. 

“Can we go back to the plains after this?” Wilbur whined behind Phil, barely loud enough to be heard over the pickaxe, “I don’t want to ever take a step upwards ever again. _Please_.”

“Will, you don’t have to beg. Definitely plains next. Or a savannah. Something flat. Something-”

The stone crumbled and there was light. Bright enough that Phil winced, squeezed his eyes shut and covered them with one arm. 

“ _YES!”_ Wilbur screamed in his ear, and despite having just been _blinded_ , Phil laughed and let Wilbur climb over him to get out first, gangly limbs scrambling. He didn’t even mind when Will accidentally kicked him in the shoulder.

The air was cool against his sweat soaked face. Phil crawled more than climbed out, and sank to the ground with a groan. 

Wilbur ran in circles around him, _screaming_ with joy before whatever adrenaline the young soul had abruptly left him. Phil wheezed with laughter as Wilbur faceplanted not far from him, as if someone cut his strings without any kind of warning.

The sun shone bright above them and the sky was a blessed, bright blue. The only sounds were of grass rustling in the wind and them trying to catch their breaths. The air was cold, the way it got when high up.

“Holy shit,” Wilbur said. 

“Yeah?”

“ _Never_ again.”

Phil snorted a laugh and pressed the palm of his hands against his eyes. Groaned.

“Yeah, agreed.”

“I’m going to take my armor off,” Wilbur then said, and Phil almost said no. It was on the tip of his tongue, but in the end he only made an affirming sound. It was daytime, and they were alone at the top of a mountain. Even _he_ wanted to remove his armor, never having felt so heavy. As if he would never be able to sit up again.

He listened as Wilbur began to try and get rid of it all. Difficult that, as Will seemed as unwilling to sit up as Phil. There were swears, slurred from exhaustion, punctuated by the sound of metal against metal. Phil closed his eyes and simply breathed. 

“Phil,” the young soul said, sitting up going by the rustling sounds. A yanked off helmet came to a rolling stop right next to Phil’s head and he shuffled just a little bit away from it, “can I have the diamond?”

“When we’re back at camp,” he replied.

There was a soft, strange sound. He waited for Will to respond. To whine, or make a crude joke. Instead there was a long moment of silence, and then-

A wet gasp. 

Phil’s eyes snapped open; he sat up, turning, lips shaping Will’s name only to never get it out.

Wilbur stared back; his hands hovered awkwardly by his throat and his eyes were so very wide.

An arrow.

Right there; poking out of Wilbur’s throat, no blood having escaped the wound. That came when Will coughed; blood gathering at the corner of his mouth. 

Behind him, the washed out, grey skin of a man reloading a crossbow.

It all took a split second. Then, Wilbur fell to the ground as Phil choked on a scream, as he scrambled over to catch Will. To cradle him, his own hands trembled while grasping Will’s hands. Held them away from the arrow, knew that touching it would only make it worse. Except Will were trying to speak. Nothing came out, just more blood and choked gasps. 

The wet sounds were _awful_.

He needed to take care of the illager. He could not let the man reload his crossbow, could not let him shoot again. But Will was choking, was _dying_ , and Phil hunched over him and folded out wings he had hidden away for months, used them as barriers to protect Will. He could take a hit or two with those. It was fine. It was _fine_.

“Don’t talk, ssh. It’s fine, it’s fine,” Phil said, echoing those thoughts, wiping away hair from Will’s brow, slick and dark with sweat. He looked scared. He looked terrified and in pain, and Phil did not cry but his eyes stung as he held Wilbur close. “I’m here. It- it will be over soon, Will. And you will wake up and I will be there as fast as possible. Alright? It’s alright. I’m here, I’m here…”

An arrow hit his wings but did not pierce; they were not like actual bird wings, the feathers stronger than that. It still hurt. It would bruise. He heard the man behind them snarl in an unknown tongue, heard the man get closer. 

Will got one hand free. He reached up and grasped at Phil’s cloak. Tears were running down his cheeks, dirt stained and messy, his breath shuddering and wet and the worst sound Phil had ever heard. He thought, perhaps, that Will was trying to say his name and wished he would stop. 

A second arrow hit, this time with the sharp pain of it going through. Phil gritted his teeth and bore it, did not do much more than twitch as he continued to try and soothe the young man in his arms.

Wilbur’s eyes grew distant. 

Phil choked on a yell as the body disappeared, nothing but dust and particles to grasp at, the arrow which had caused it falling to the ground, still stained with blood.

He released a shuddering breath of his own. Could hear the click-snap of the crossbow being reloaded behind him, the man so much closer now. The last of the dust drifted, disappeared. Carried away by the wind.

Phil unsheathed his sword.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He found Wilbur at their campsite.

Phil felt sharp relief at that; he had dreaded the months long journey back to where Will had first woken up. The idea of Will waiting for so long after his first death had been unacceptable.

He landed on the edge of it. Did not bother to fold his wings away, despite how they ached and stung from having gone unused for so long, from the wound the arrow had made before. It was more important to rush forwards, to get to Will.

Wilbur’s armor had been thrown off to the side. The young soul’s breathing was too fast, too loud, hands clutching at his own throat. 

Phil wrapped his arms around Wilbur and hugged him close.

“It’s fine,” he said, “it’s fine, I’m here. I’m here.” 

He could feel how Will trembled. How he pressed closer, hiding his face against Phil’s shoulder and the warm puffs of too fast breathing.

Phil murmured reassurances. Later, he would not be able to recall what exactly he had said. But whatever it had been, it worked enough to have Wilbur remove his hands from his throat. To instead hug back as he began to cry, and of all the things to make Phil’s own racing heartbeat finally calm down–

Phil closed his eyes and rocked them side to side and waited for everything to calm down. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You’re… there’s… Phil,” Wilbur mumbled what could have been an eternity later, voice hoarse and exhausted, “Blood on you.”  
  


“Not mine, don’t worry about it,” he reassured and smoothed out Will’s hair. He seemed unwilling to move away and honestly, Phil was glad. He also wanted to stay close, and it was an effort to not force Wilbur back into his armor again, to pick him up and hide him away in some hole where nothing could ever hurt him again. 

For a moment, Will was silent. 

Then, Phil felt a touch drag across his feathers. Just a brush of fingers, clumsy from how Wilbur still hugged him and refused to let go, the angle all wrong. 

“Are you a _bird?”_ Will asked, and almost sounded normal in his bafflement. 

He chuckled and felt his own eyes sting and fuck, why would _that_ make him finally break and cry? He hugged Wilbur closer and this time it was his turn to hide his face away against the other’s shoulders. 

“No, Will,” he got out. “I’m not a bird.”

“Birdza.”

“Do _not_ ,” he laughed wetly, “call me that.”

Will touched the feathers again. Soft, gentle touches that helped ground Phil more to the present. He normally never let others touch them, but this- this was fine. It was further affirmation that Wilbur was alright.

“They’re pretty,” Will said in a whisper. 

He made no comment about the tears Phil was shedding against his shoulder. For that, Phil was grateful.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It took time. 

Phil knew that it would probably always haunt Wilbur; he himself certainly had deaths he still woke up from remembering in his sleep, messy and painful things, sudden things. Death never got _better_. Perhaps when he was young he had been willing to endure it for a greater goal, but it had always been painful. And the world was whimsical, not always putting souls back where they expected or how they had been before the latest death. 

Wilbur was withdrawn the first few days. Withdrawn and clingy, hovering over Phil like an anxious giraffe but far more somber. Not that Phil thought he was much better- he probably fussed over Will too much, was probably too quick to give in to any whining and complaints. But damn it, they needed it. They _needed_ it, just some time to figure out how to fucking feel about what had happened.

They didn’t stay in the area, though. 

Walking helped, Phil hoped. New sights and always keeping busy had certainly helped _him_ in the past, and surely it would help Wilbur too. Will was younger, more new. Phil wanted to settle down somewhere to amass some wealth, yeah, but he was in no hurry. And Will _did_ seem calmer, happier on the days that ended with them both in an exhausted pile by the fire.

It would all be fine.

“Why did you hide your wings?” Wilbur asked as they walked. Twigs snapped and broke under their feet, the forest thinning out more and more. The mountain towered behind them, massive and not far away enough despite having been days since they left it. “Again? And before?” A pause as Wilbur tugged his beanie further down, hiding the top of his ears. “How did you get them? Were you- did you wake up with them?”

Phil wrinkled his nose. 

“I woke up with them, yeah, but they weren’t good enough to fly with. Too small back then. They’re much bigger now. And I hid them because…” he sighed. “I don’t know. It’s always much easier, I guess. Flying takes energy, and I prefer to fly when I know the area better, got the right supplies. If something goes wrong, it would be… hard to fix.”

“Wrong? You mean like an _arrow_ in them?”

“One arrow isn’t bad. They’re not actual bird wings, Will. I was fine.”

“You were covered in blood,” Wilbur muttered and kicked a rock into the bushes. He was hunched in on himself, as if his coat could possibly hide him. Still pale, and as Phil glanced at him, was rubbing at his throat. 

“It wasn’t mine. You know that- but yeah, if something goes wrong with my wings, I much rather have a supply of regen potions than not. Fucked up wings are a pain to fix.”

“Could…” Wilbur hesitated. Phil waited. “Could you not just… die? To fix them? I- after that, the fucker who- I didn’t hurt anymore. When I woke up again. Wouldn’t that be a quick fix?”

Ah.

“First of all, you should always avoid dying. It’s never fun, and you shouldn’t see it as a- a fix it thing. You can actually stay dead, mate. It’s rare, but it happens. Second of all,” and Phil reached up to readjust his hat, shielding his eyes from the sun that so gleefully tried to blind him through the canopy, “I wouldn’t come back to you, if I did.”  
  


“What.”

“If I died, I wouldn’t come back to you,” Phil repeated. Then he realized Wilbur had stopped walking and turned around towards him, “Will?”

The young soul’s eyes were wide and dark; it made him look paler than he was, and the heavy bags under his eyes most definitely didn’t help. Phil held back a wince.

“Wilbur?” 

“Why wouldn’t you come back?” Wilbur asked, voice high and thin, and this time Phil _did_ wince. “What the fuck? You’re not one of- one of those people! They don’t have fucking _wings_.”

“Will, calm down-”

“No! Why wouldn’t you come _back?”_

“Calm down and I will _explain_ , alright?”

Wilbur glared at him. He would probably look menacing to anyone else, partially in shadow, tall and lanky and eyes so very sharp. 

Phil sighed.

“I’m old, Will. Or at least older than you. I have done things, seen things that you haven’t, and maybe never will, I don’t know. But they changed me. This,” and he gestured around them, “is not my first world. I travel between them. That’s what I mean. Travelling between worlds is… it’s exciting and amazing and a gift. But remember our talk on the give and take?”

Wilbur had a pinched look to his face that said he did remember and would prefer not to, yes. Probably because the talk had happened during a particularly childish tantrum of his that Phil remembered with fond annoyance. It had been about books, of course. It was almost always about books. 

“Yes,” Will still said through gritted teeth.

“Travelling through worlds means I can’t die like you do. Not anymore. If I die, I… I don’t stay dead, so don’t worry about that. But I can’t return to this world if I do. That would be it for us, unless you also began to travel.”

“Why couldn’t you take me with you, then?”

“You have to do those things I did, first.”

“So teach me.”

“There’s _a lot_ to teach, Will.”

“I don’t care. Teach me. I’m smart, right?”

Phil smiled.

“You are,” he agreed, “One of the smartest souls I’ve met.”

“So teach me, then,” Wilbur stubbornly repeated. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“It’s going to take a lot of time and hard work,” he warned, stepping closer. Reached out and put one hand on Wilbur’s arm. Gave it a squeeze. “And a lot of it you must discover yourself, alright?” 

“But you will teach me?”

“I will help you as much as I can,” Phil promised, “and Will?”

“Yeah?”

“I would _never_ leave you if I had a choice. Not ever.”

Wilbur bit at his lip; eyed Phil for a long moment, and Phil patiently waited. There was a tension he couldn’t quite place, something important but not bad, not good. Simply there, but very important.

It broke with a sigh. 

“Good,” Will finally said. For the first time since his death, there was a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth, “So what first?”

Phil grinned.

“What do you know about dragons?”

“A _what!?”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Is that your son?” 

Phil blinked and looked up from the bundles of fabric he had been perusing. The villager smiled at him before they nodded at something behind him. Phil glanced over his shoulder.

Wilbur was dripping wet and looked more like an unfortunate enderman crossed with a wet rat than anything else. He was also reluctantly climbing out of the town’s fountain as some kind of official looking person yelled at him. It was an amusing image, though Phil couldn’t blame him. Wilbur had never experienced the heat of a desert before and even though Phil had immediately nagged him into clothes fitting for the environment, Will clearly still suffered.

Which was likely why he had apparently tried to drown himself in the fountain when Phil wasn’t looking.

“You mean me? And him?” he asked, turning back to the merchant. They nodded, and repeated the phrase- at least Phil _thought_ they were asking if Wilbur was his son. He recognized the word son in there, at least. The rest was vague, but the tone of it was enough.

Souls like them didn’t have kids.

But the question still made him pause. 

He had called Wilbur that, a few times. Not in the way these people did, with their offspring running about so tiny and helpless. But he had called Wilbur ‘son’ in passing, the way he called him mate or buddy or idiot. Fond and exasperated and just something to add onto the sentence to make Will listen.

Except he had kind of raised him, hadn’t he? Wilbur had been glued to his side since he first woke up, and Phil knew- he _knew_ he would do anything for Will. Had already done a lot, and would do more, if asked. If needed. Had taught him all kinds of things, even how to walk properly. Fed and clothed him, helped him master reading and scolded him when being an idiot. 

Just like how these people did with _their_ offspring. Their larvae, as Will would say. 

Phil looked back towards Wilbur. He looked miserable but defiant, stomping across the sand stained street to get to Phil, leaving dark spots behind him with every step. The sight made Phil feel warm, and not because of the desert sun.

“Yeah,” Phil said, and grinned as Wilbur reached him, “he is.”

Will squinted down at him.

“I’m what?”

“You’re my kid,” Phil told him, and didn’t bother hiding his pride.

Wilbur blinked. He looked a bit pink around the cheeks, and Phil’s grin widened as he wondered if it was a blush or the beginnings of a sunburn. It could be both, honestly. It probably was.

“Shut up,” Wilbur said, but it wasn’t a denial.

“My larvae,” Phil added, only to shy away as Will immediately tried to retaliate by hugging him, which would have been fine except he was _dripping_ with water and grinning dangerously and yes, clearly not doing it out of the goodness of his heart. “Stop!” 

He didn’t stop, of course, because Wilbur was stubborn to a fault. And honestly, Phil didn’t fight it very hard. 

Instead he let his son hug him with minimum struggle and yes, it was awful and wet and cold. But the warmth lit within him was more than enough to combat it. So he hugged back, finally, wet clothes and all.

They would be fine.

Perfectly, wonderfully fine.


	2. Technoblade

The second time he found a son, they were building a house.

Only the barest of foundations had been laid down. Stone slabs and thick oak logs made into pillars, a frame, a hint of what was to come. 

But there was no rush, as they had found a suitable cave near it. Big enough for them to stretch out in, small enough to keep it warm and cozy during colder nights as autumn had begun to arrive, not yet freezing but inching closer every day. The cave made it easier to be patient as he explained to Wilbur how to build, how to find everything they needed. Which was easy to find- they had found an excellent spot to settle down. 

Near a mountain, on the edge of a forest, was an open space. He could not call it a meadow, not quite, but it was open and flat enough that the paranoia itching at old scars was soothed. It let him see if others were to approach. People or monsters, enemies or possible friends. A village was no more than a two hours walk away, less if they bought horses in the future. It made it perfect for their possibly forever home. 

As it was, they sat by the stones they had placed out to form the base. The sun shone warm against them, and Phil ignored the miserable groans of Wilbur next to him as he looked over the building plans he had drafted. 

Wilbur had become good enough with a sword, with archery, that he had _some_ muscles on him these days. But those muscles were more for agility than for carrying big rocks around. Phil would have been more surprised if his son _hadn’t_ laid down and whined as he now did. He ached too, of course, but he wasn’t new to it. And whining as much as Wilbur was out of the question- Wilbur had made it into an artform. 

He absently reached out to remove a leaf from Wilbur’s hair. Will, ungrateful, swatted his hand away.

“Fine, be messy,” Phil said and squinted down at the letters he had for some cursed reason written too small. He _thought_ it called for oak wood, but it could be that he meant dark oak. They had both kinds in the area, as well as spruce around the base of the mountain. More oak, though. So probably he had meant that. He didn’t need glasses, surely. He wasn’t _that_ old. 

“I’ll fix it myself,” Wilbur grumbled back and wiggled around like a hapless worm until he was more in the sun than in the shade. He was wearing the yellow sweater he had first woken up with, now months ago. It was more fitting for the season. Though they still needed to get to the village to get proper winter coats for when it became even colder. “When I get up.” 

“Right, right.”

“I reckoned we should build the library first.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why _not?_ It’s knowledge, Phil. We need to treasure it.”

“I rather want, oh, I don’t know, somewhere to eat and sleep first. We can build a shelf to keep your books until the library is finished. Which will be...” He paused. “Last. It will be built last.”

The noise Wilbur made wasn’t anything Phil could possibly describe. Not accurately, at least, but the closest thing he could imagine was possibly a very hoarse cat. Possibly a mutated creeper. 

He glanced down at him, grinning.

“Are you trying to turn into a creeper or something? Or are you choking? What was _that?”_

“I want a library,” Wilbur hissed. 

“You’ll get one, mate, just not now. Be patient.” Phil rolled up the papers into one scroll and tucked it back into his cloak. Stretched his arms before he got back up onto his feet with a groan and stretched some more, bones cracking and protesting. “C’mon, time to mark out what trees to cut down.”

He paused. No answer, so he chuckled and nudged Wilbur’s side with his foot.

“Hello?”

“Can’t you do it by yourself?” Will whined and swatted at his foot, trying to escape it by rolling onto his front. Judging from the sounds, Phil assumed all Will got was a mouth full of dirt.

“I could, but it would take twice as long and I do _not_ trust you with cooking. I would like to eat _before_ the moon is up. Besides, you need to learn what to look for.”

Wilbur groaned.

“Also your height will help.”

“Oh, well, in _that_ case,” Will said and pulled himself up, not a single bone cracking. Youth. “Did you know that those other people- the villagers back there- they _shrink_ when they get too old?”

“I did not know that, no.”

“Maybe it affects you too.”

“Fuck off,” he laughed and gave the younger soul a quick poke in the side, “behave. Respect your elders, you giraffe.”

“I still don’t think those things exist,” Will said, jumping to the side to avoid a second poke, grinning, leafs and twigs still in his hair. 

“Maybe not in this world, but I promise you I’ve seen them.”

“No proof. You’re guilty of bullshit until proven innocent.”

“Hm, pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“I want a _library_ , Phil.”

The way Wilbur said it- whiny and posh and nose in the air- had Phil cackling despite himself. Still, Wilbur followed as Phil led the way into the forest, amicably bickering as they did. It was a good forest. The comfortable kind, where he did not feel as much of a need to look around for threats, leaves breaking under their boots and critters scrambling away at their approach. It reminded him of the place he met Will. 

Phil pointed out which trees to go for; not the too old ones nor the too young ones. They could cut down the ones that seemed sick, too; even if not always good for building with, they _would_ need fuel for their fireplace once they had one. And the campfire, too, in their temporary cave home. 

At one point, Wilbur began to climb a particularly tall tree. Phil was not sure _why_ or how it began, but it seemed like he blinked and suddenly all he saw was Wilbur’s long legs disappearing up amongst the foliage. 

Phil’s wings itched from where they were hidden away as he tried to ignore the anxiety of watching Will climb a tree he could very well break his neck from if he fell. 

It had been difficult the past months, keeping his worries to something manageable. Phil didn’t want Wilbur to become fearful of the world or of taking risks. He didn’t want to be the reason that Wilbur never recovered from his first death. But Will in turn had been somber and withdrawn during that first period. Still had moments of it, where he wanted to either glue himself to Phil’s side without a word being spoken, or hide away somewhere and not come out for hours on end. Where he refused to wear anything that put pressure on his throat. 

So it was difficult to keep his own desire to keep Will safe to something reasonable, something manageable. 

Seeing Will climb a tree that could break his neck was a win in that regard. It didn’t make Phil any less anxious, though.

“Don’t- don’t step on any moss or mushrooms you might see!” he shouted, and he could only barely see the yellow of Wilbur’s sweater through the leaves from how high up the young man was. The leaves had all begun to turn more orange than green, making it that tiny bit harder to track where Wilbur was climbing. “They can be slippery!”

  
“I know, _dad,”_ was the reply, which really shouldn’t make Phil’s heart warm up, damn it, “wait- I can see something. The fuck?”

The warmth was immediately replaced with fear.

“See what?” he asked warily, looking around himself. The forest seemed empty; he could hear birds in the distance and saw none of the monsters that liked to hide away in the shades. All he had brought with him was a dagger and colorful twines to mark the trees with. He _hoped_ it wasn’t anything hostile. 

“Some pink stuff! And red. And-”

Wilbur cut off. 

“Will?”

“I- I think it’s a person? They’re just laying there, I don’t know?” 

A person. This far out from any village, it could not be one of _those_ people. Which meant it was a soul, like them. 

That did not bring comfort.

Phil frowned and pulled out his dagger; it would do in a pinch. He could handle most things and, if lucky, he wouldn’t even need to do that. But a dagger was still better than nothing.

“Where? What direction?” he asked. 

“Straight!”

“Will. I don’t know where you’re facing, mate.”

“South, then.” 

“Thanks. Stay there! Keep an eye out, tell me if you see anyone else!”

“Wha- _how?_ Telepathically? Phil, you won’t be able to fucking _hear_ me from there!”

“You’re clever, you’ll figure something out,” he called back and began to walk. He ignored the swears he could hear from the tree, more focused on getting closer to whoever it was that his son had seen. 

Phil walked slowly, careful to avoid making too much noise to make up for the loud ruckus the both of them had made on their way out. A difficult task, with the trees shedding their crowns onto the forest floor, every little leaf a possible give away. But nothing happened; no monsters, no animals other than a squirrel scrambling up a tree, the birds still chirping between themselves. He reached his destination without any issue and felt his dread rise for every step. 

He reached a clearing.

The red stood out against the forest floor; bright red, spread out like a carpet and lined with white fur, bumpy in a vaguely recognizable way. A cape or a cloak, something dramatic and very much not natural, something none of the people from the settlements would ever wear. 

Phil approached it warily, bracing himself for any kind of movement. 

None came.

Instead he reached it, and his breath hitched.

It was a young soul; still buzzing around the edges, the way Wilbur had done that first month. Endless, directionless energy. However this one was far more eye-catching than either of them had ever been, with long, pink hair and pointed ears, the pink a strange contrast against the red cape they donned. 

Unlike Wilbur, they were also very much not safe nor unharmed.

No longer worried for himself, Phil fell to his knees as he began to check them over, gently patting down their body and winced as his hands came away sticky and red. He did not _want_ to turn them over, to get a better look at them, for fear of worsening whatever injuries they had. But he had no better idea; as it was, he feared they were struggling to breathe with how they were laying face down into the dirt. 

So he put his dagger down and very carefully began to turn them onto their back instead, one hand under their head as he did, making sure he did not accidentally flip them onto a rock or some other unfortunate object that could possibly make things worse than they already were.

The sight of the young soul’s front had him sharply inhale. 

The front was no less eye-catching than their back. The white, flowy shirt and the elegant high-waisted pants, paired with the red cape, reminded Phil vaguely of rulers of other worlds, or from some of the less factually correct books Wilbur read. It looked regal even with the broken, useless armor clinging to the frame. However, that all paled at the sight of the red. The blood, which made the white shirt not so very white anymore.

The darkest and most worrying spot was by their side; the fabric clung to it, and the red was growing increasingly bigger. Phil needed to get a better look at that. Whatever had injured the young soul would certainly leave marks-- if they survived. 

For a moment, he wondered if he should even bother trying to help them. They were new, clearly, and would simply wake up again if they died. Their breath was shuddering and wet and brought to mind of Wilbur’s death, but- they would wake up again, surely. Trying to move them would only cause them more pain. And as Wilbur had pointed out an eternity ago, a death would be quicker and easier than weeks of healing. But death was not always a fix-it all. 

They were also so _young_. 

It was as he struggled to reach a decision that he realized there was a voice. Raspy and hoarse and barely there, but a voice. Coming from the person who was bleeding out before him, their breathing getting worse as they spoke. 

“Hey,” Phil said, pressed one hand against their cheek. Their eyes were hazy and maroon, not red nor brown but something in between. Those same eyes were desperate and afraid and clearly not fully aware of his presence. “it’s alright. Stop talking, you will make it worse.”

They shook their head; continued to mutter, one hand coming up to paw at Phil, clumsy fingers catching on his coat, smearing blood where they touched. Phil was vaguely aware of hearing Wilbur’s voice in the distance. Getting closer. He did not sound scared. 

That was less urgent, then. Wilbur was fine. No danger there. But the person needed to stop talking, and something told Phil they wouldn’t until he heard what they had to say. So he leaned down and tilted his head to better hear even as he folded out his wings, getting ready.

“... never dies,” the young soul rasped against his ear, “Techno… blade… never dies…”

Well.

  
That made little sense.

It did make it easier to come to a decision, however. One Phil had made the moment he folded out his wings, really, but the words made it more important, more urgent. The soul did not want to die, if that was their name. He assumed it was. 

“You probably will, mate,” he told the delirious soul, certain they couldn’t hear him anyway. Phil began to pick them up. They weren’t as tall as Wilbur, thankfully, but they were a little stockier. More muscles, less of a gangly tree, “but I’ll try my best.” 

“Phil!” he heard his son yell from behind him, branches and dead leafs snapping and breaking from how he rushed up to them, “I saw you- is something wrong? Can I help?” 

“Will, meet me at the cave,” Phil cut him off before he could say more, ask more, “take the dagger, it’s- there, yeah. No delays. I need to get this one back home right now. You remember the way?”

“Of course I do,” Wilbur said. He looked pale; eyes stuck to the figure in Phil’s arms, at the blood, and Phil’s heart clenched at that but he had no time to comfort Will. Not right then. “We marked a ton of fucking trees on our way here.” 

“Right. Good. Be careful.”

And with that, Phil gritted his teeth and leapt into the air, the still muttering soul cradled close enough he could feel the warmth of red spreading against him. 

He flew.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Technoblade did not die.

There were several close calls, over and over. Potions could only heal so much, and Technoblade had bled _a lot_ by the time Phil had reached them, bled more when they flew and the white shirt had become a lost cause by the time they reached the cave. It had been a nasty wound as well, hiding under the fabric; too clean to be anything but made from a blade, deep enough that Phil had been genuinely surprised to not see anything else but blood spill out of it.

Wilbur had seen it by accident.

Phil had mostly been happy his son had the brains to barf _outside_ of the cave. Had felt a spark of pride when Wilbur, pale and trembling but oh so stubborn, still came back inside and demanded to help any way he could.

Days passed. Wilbur’s hands grew steady enough that Phil began to trust him with the bandaging when he was too exhausted to do it himself. Technoblade did not open their eyes for the longest time.

“Should we let him die?” Wilbur had asked one night, the world outside the cave pitch black but for the canvas lighting up the sky with its starry wonder. 

The question had been forced out; Phil had looked towards him, seen how Wilbur’s jaw was clenched, how his son had not looked away from the way Technoblade’s chest rose up and down in a staggering, shaking kind of motion. Struggling to even inhale. 

For a moment, he was tempted to speak of other things. To inform Wilbur that Technoblade was not necessarily male, that it would be impossible to know until they could ask the soul themselves. To tell Wilbur of stories past, where Phil had survived despite it all, had helped others survive as well. To, perhaps, change the subject entirely and speak of how he had once seen dolphins as pink as Technoblade’s hair.

But Wilbur would not ask such a thing if he did not genuinely wish to know. And answering that question was more important than sidelining it with other answers. 

So Phil sighed and tugged Wilbur closer, until Will was pressed against his side. Ruffled dark hair and felt his heart clench when Wilbur did not even react to that.

“Technoblade said they did not want to die, when I picked them up,” he explained to Wilbur. “I thought it would be a good thing, to try and help them avoid that.”

“It looks like it hurts, though. I know that it- I know it hurts, but I died and it stopped. It happened quickly. This has been days, Phil,” the young soul replied. Wilbur’s voice had grown hoarse lately. Was noticeably worse now, and Phil reached for the waterskin and gave it to him. 

Wilbur’s voice was likely ruined because he had spent nearly every waking moment talking at the sleeping Technoblade. And when not talking, he had been singing. Made up rhymes and soft tunes that were on the edge of gentle ballads, if one ignored some of the words. 

He had a good kid, Phil knew. He was proud of him. 

“Well, maybe you’re right. No, you _are_ right. It would be easier to let them die, definitely. But they said they didn’t want to. So… we won’t let them.” 

“It’s not all that fun. To die.”

“I know.”

Wilbur sighed. Pressed closer, pointy elbow digging against Phil’s side in an exhausted murder attempt, before they both managed to get more comfortable. Technoblade continued to sleep. The moon began to rise outside. 

“Fine,” Wilbur finally said, “but he better be grateful when he wakes up. Do I _also_ look like that inside?” 

“Like what? Wait- you mean the, the gore? Blood and that stuff?”

“Yeah. Am I a fucking _mess_ , Phil, on the inside? Are you?” 

Phil snorted a laugh and gave Will a squeeze. 

“Oh, in more than one way, mate. More than one way.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Technoblade woke quietly the next day. 

Perhaps they would not have realized for hours more that the new soul had woken, if not for the fact that it happened as Phil was changing their bandages. 

It was a task which Wilbur often squirmed away from, even if his hands had stopped trembling the times he _did_ do it; but usually he looked far too green in the face for comfort, to the point it had felt safer to keep Wilbur away from any unfortunate accidents when the wounds were just a bit messier than normal. Some days, all it took was a _squish_ sound for Wilbur to stumble outside, letting Phil take over. 

Perhaps it had been a mistake to let him run off when it got difficult. It was important, knowing how to handle it, how to tend to wounds that were more than splinters and scrub wounds from clumsy antics. But it was something he could teach Wilbur later, when there was less of a mess around it, less whining that scraped away at Phil’s already thin patience. 

Because it _was_ thin, and he hoped Wilbur understood why. Caring for a new soul who simply refused to wake up was not the most relaxing hobby Phil could have picked. 

Not knowing what had hurt them didn’t help either- because the wounds were from blades, and Phil did not like the implications. The silent threat. So Will only had to help with the wounds when Phil was too tired to see straight, and instead Will spent most of his time doing chores and gathering what they needed from the outside. And Phil in turn tried his best to not worry too much about what unknown threats could be lurking in the woods around them. 

But Technoblade did wake up.

Phil privately thought the soul looked quite a lot like a mummy with how wrapped up they were. There was the large wound in their side, yes, the nemesis of Wilbur. Stitched up but still in need of bandages. But there were also cuts deep enough to warrant further wrapping, old wounds which had been in need of care as well from having been badly treated in the past. Whoever the new soul was, they were either extremely unlucky or simply had a tendency to pick fights. Perhaps both.

It was as Phil tied off the bandages and began to bundle up the unconscious body once more with fur pelts and blankets. It was as he absently listened to Wilbur singing out by the well which they had dug out in the last days of Spring, one of the first things they had done when they settled down. That was when he looked up and met maroon eyes.

For a long, awkward moment they simply stared at each other. 

Phil had days to memorize the other’s face, but it was different seeing them awake. The way they blinked at him reminded him of Wilbur after his son had refused to sleep reasonable hours. Slow and bleary eyed, as if everything needed a moment to come into focus. The way they scrunched up their nose, further enhancing their piglin features and somehow managing to look quite endearing doing so. Tusks peeking past lips, one chipped off and looking quite awkward compared to the other. Their face was pale and pinched around the corners with exhaustion and pain.

The silence was broken when Wilbur reached a particularly high note. 

Technoblade flinched; then groaned and made to clutch at their side. Phil caught their hands in his and squeezed them in warning. He didn’t bother to hide a grin at the way it earned him quite the nasty glare, the way Technoblade yanked their hands away from him. 

“Don’t touch,” Phil said, “I only just bandaged it, mate.”

“Where am I.”

He… had not expected that tone. It felt a bit like whiplash, having been around Wilbur for so long. Wilbur, whose tone of voice was all over the place, much like a playful summer breeze or, when he drove Phil insane, like a rabid, hyperactive squirrel trapped in a box.

Technoblade’s voice was utterly, completely monotone. A lifeless rock to the manic energy of Wilbur’s, and it took a moment for Phil to process the words. To rearrange his world view, somehow now surrounded by two extremes. 

The voice was also a bit hoarse around the edges; Phil reached for the waterskin, reasoning the soul must be feeling parched. 

“You’re safe,” he told them, “Wilbur and I found you in the woods. Been a few days. Here.”

Technoblade squinted at the waterskin.

“Is it poisoned.”

“How are you asking things without asking them?” Phil wondered, in awe despite himself, smiling, “and no, it’s not- look.” He took a sip of it, then held it out once more. “No poison. Though you need to sit up if you’re going to drink.” 

The suspicious squint did not lessen; but Technoblade still let Phil help them to sit up, carefully arranging it so that there were plenty of pillows and blankets supporting them. Phil made no comment about how their hands shook as they grabbed the waterskin, or how clumsily they drank. He simply watched and waited and listened to Wilbur singing his voice away. 

“What is that sound,” Technoblade said once they stopped drinking. “Who are you.”

“That’s Wilbur singing and not doing his chores,” Phil explained, sending a fond look that way. Wilbur had been sent out to get more water, but it really was taking ages. The song made no sense, either, from the few words Phil could make out. It did not help that Will’s voice was already ruined from too many days of using it too much. “And I’m Philza, or Phil. You’re Technoblade, yeah?”

Technoblade wrinkled their nose.

“How.”

“You said your name a lot when we found you. Technoblade never dies, stuff like that. And look at you! You sure didn’t.”  
  


There was a glint in those maroon eyes at that; a twitch at their lips, and Phil’s own smile widened, amused by the smug pride of it.

“Haven’t yet.”

“Died?”

“Mmhm.” 

“That’s pretty cool, dude.” Phil paused. “Can I call you dude?” 

“... yeah. Why do you ask.”

It was fucking _weird_ , how Technoblade asked without asking. Phil was almost disturbingly fascinated by it, wondering about the mechanics of that. Had Technoblade known how to do that since he woke up, or was it a recent development? Why? How? And he did not _act_ like a new soul. Not like how Wilbur or even Phil himself had, that first month of being awake. 

“Well, not sure if you got a gender. Or a preference of one,” Phil explained and did very much _not_ ask Technoblade why he spoke like that, “I’m a guy, Wilbur’s a guy. Was a bit difficult, figuring you out. What with not waking up and all that shit.”

“I’m a guy.”

“Great, good to know. Wanna talk about this?” he asked and gestured towards where the wound was hidden away under piles of blankets and bandages. “Wanna tell me how it happened?” 

“I’m going to leave,” Technoblade said.

“You’re definitely _not_ gonna do that. You can’t even sit up without help, and it’s cold as shit outside. Stay.” 

“Are you keeping me hostage.”

“ _No_ . I’m helping- _we_ are helping,” Phil said, exasperated, “you almost died, dude. Leaving now would be stupid, and I hope you’re _not_ that.”

“I’m not, you’re right.”

“So _stay_.”

Technoblade frowned at him; but Phil did not budge. Not even when he could hear Wilbur approaching, humming loudly, having sung too much for his already sore throat but not willing to give up just yet. There was the sound of water hitting metal as the water bucket swung back and forth with every gangly step Wilbur took.

Until it stopped.

“Oh!” Wilbur said, “Oh!” and there was the sound of the bucket being put down and the _thud-thud-thud_ of a one-man stampede as Wilbur rushed into the cave, “Hey! You’re awake, hey, are you alright? Techno, right?”

_That_ won Phil the battle. Technoblade immediately broke the stare-off to send Wilbur an utterly appalled look, to lean away as far as the pillows let him.

“Techno _blade_ ,” he sharply corrected, and Wilbur laughed and raised his hands in a placating gesture. It was a laugh that Phil had learnt to read. Nervous but happy, more relief than anxiety. Phil used the opportunity to relax and to throw another log onto the fire. 

“Right, sorry. I’m Wilbur, or Will. With one L.”

“What,” Phil said, “since _when_.”

“Since always, obviously. Phil, have you been spelling it with two Ls? Why would you do that to me, man?”

“Shut up, Will is an actual thing, not Will with _one_ L.”

“It’s _my_ name!” Wilbur defended himself, “I can spell it however I want, alright?”

“It is grammatically incorrect.”  
  


They both turned to look at Technoblade. He stared back, but he did not look angry or furious or even grumpy now. Merely awkward, like he wished to melt into the stone floor. A difficult task- other than him being very much a physical being, there was the whole thing of trying to blend in with pink hair. 

“Why does _that_ matter?” Wilbur asked.

“It just does. It’s Will with two Ls, not one,” the new soul stubbornly said, and Phil had to admire the guts of that. Speaking again, even though Technoblade so very obviously wished to disappear, to go invisible, “it is stupid.”

“Not as stupid as Technoblade, is it? What even is _that_ name, that’s stupid.”

“It is cool. Shut up.”

“Boys, boys,” Phil cut in, “Chill out, this cave is too small for fights. Will, where’s the water? We’re making soup and we need it. Also don’t pick fights with Technoblade, he’s injured.”

“He started it!”

“And finished it,” Technoblade unhelpfully muttered, still utterly monotone and yet, somehow, sounding the tiniest bit smug. 

“No, _I_ finished it,” Phil said before Wilbur could shout back, “And it will stay fucking finished until you can walk without problem and until Wilbur calms down.” So probably days, most likely weeks. Hopefully not months. Either way, Phil pointed out of the cave. “Will. Bucket. Now.”  
  


“You’re saying my name with two L’s, aren’t you?” was the suspicious reply.

“Yeah,” Phil said, “I am. Go get the water, son.”

Wilbur hissed like a demented creeper as had become his habit, sent Technoblade one last look and then stomped outside.

For a brief moment, it was quiet.

“I hate soup.”

“Sucks,” Phil said and groaned as he forced himself back up onto his feet, “it’s all we got right now.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Despite the rocky start, Phil could not say he was surprised when Wilbur promptly glued himself to Technoblade’s side.

Deaths tended to be memorable, more so the first one. Phil could admit to himself that he had felt a shaky kind of relief once he knew Technoblade was out of the woods. That all that hard work had been worth it, and that Technoblade would remain untouched by death for now, the way the young soul had so fiercely wanted. 

Compared to Will, Phil had far more experience dealing with that kind of worried relief. 

So Wilbur sticking by Technoblade’s side was not a surprise. His son never touched the new soul, only talked at him and with him and simply kept company. 

But there was a kind of manic energy around it. 

An unrest, a type of motherhenning that Phil figured he might have been guilty of, too, at least back when Wilbur died. It came in the form of constantly full bowls of soup, of blankets being arranged, of needling comments just that side of too obvious worry and restless limbs never holding still. 

Technoblade looked more often than not confused by the development. Watched them both warily, perhaps trying to figure out if there was some kind of catch. If they had kept him alive for a reason. 

Phil could understand that; paranoia could keep one alive for a long time. He simply wished a soul as young as Technoblade hadn’t developed it in the first place. Hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they would gain Technoblade’s trust eventually. 

It was a work in progress.

But they were both hard workers. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Why do you feel like this.”

Phil blinked. Looked up from the book he had been paging through, idly looking for any new ideas to add to their house plans. He had used the top of Wilbur’s head as a book rest, flattened down the usually fluffy hair with the weight of it. He figured he could do that. After all, Will was using his lap as a pillow and had as such effectively trapped him. It balanced out.

Technoblade looked back at him. 

Blank as always, though Phil liked to think he had begun to spot minimal changes to his expressions whenever Wilbur was nagging more than usual. Now, if he looked very carefully, he could see a pinch to the soul’s brow. What that tension stood for, however, he couldn’t say. 

But he was learning. 

“You need to elaborate, mate,” he said and smoothed out the page. It hadn’t given many ideas, though mentioned a few shortcuts they could possibly use for the future storage shed. “Like what?”

“Strange.”

Phil raised a brow and felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

“Seems reasonable. I think most people would call me and Will strange,” he joked and turned the page. “though you’re the first soul we met. Well, Will met.” The first other soul Phil had met in this world, but that wasn’t as important. 

“Not… that. I mean.” Technoblade made a huffing sound, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing. Phil waited. They both ignored the mumbling Wilbur. Too muffled, anyway, to make any sense of whatever he was mumbling. If there was any sense to be heard. “I mean,” Technoblade tried again, “different. From- from places. With people in them.”

Oh.

“You mean the villages and the people who live there?” he asked, and was pleased to see a sharp nod from Technoblade. “Well, we aren’t the same as those people. None of us three are.”

“Because… buzzing?”

Oh, that sounded like a proper question. Phil smiled.

“I guess you could describe it as that, yeah. We have a certain energy around us. Younger souls like you and Will tend to… buzz. The energy around you hasn't quite settled yet, I guess.”

“But why,” Technoblade said, starting to sound proper _grumpy_ , which truly shouldn’t be endearing, “do we buzz and not the- the others.”

“I had this talk with Will ages ago,” he mused, “didn’t think I would need to have it again.”

Technoblade’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t want recycled talk,” he _grumpily_ told Phil, “give me new talk. We buzz. They don’t. Why.”

“How will you know if it's recycled or not, mate?” 

The young soul’s eyes narrowed even further, daggers turning into swords with the glare he sent Phil’s way. Phil chuckled and closed his book, traced the patterns on the cover with his fingers.

“They are different. They don’t wake up like we do, ready to get moving, and they don’t age like we do. They start tiny and they die old, and they never come back to life again. We do. You do,” Phil added, let his fingers brush against Wilbur’s hair. Still mumbling in his sleep, and Phil smiled down at him. “Which is why I’m a bit surprised you didn’t want to die. Most young souls I meet don’t seem to care much, not in the way you do.”

“Dying would be losing. I don’t lose.”

“... oookay, we have a few things to talk about.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Soon enough the frost became snow, the air cold enough to delight Wilbur who puffed out cloud after cloud, not tiring of it for the longest time and rambling about future dragons the whole time.

Even Technoblade seemed to find it fascinating; maroon eyes glimmering as he mimicked Wilbur, trying to do it subtly and not where they could see, reminding Phil of someone trying to hide a cough against the inside of their elbow. 

Phil saw, of course. He had to keep an eye on Technoblade, after all, as the young soul had begun to finally walk around. Not for long, stiff as a board and awkwardly hunched as he did. But he walked and his stitches did not tear and the stiffness seemed to be more because he had not moved in a while rather than actual pain. 

“How are you not _cold_ ,” said soul grumbled at both of them. 

“How are you not _warm?”_ Wilbur replied, giving Technoblade’s hair a tug; it was a new thing, that. Less murder in Technoblade’s eyes whenever it happened. “You are more bundled up than the both of us!”

It was true; Phil thought he and Wilbur were reasonably dressed, but Technoblade was wrapped up in so many layers that Phil was just a tiny bit tempted to push him down a hill to see how far he would roll. The fact that most of those layers were made up of blankets he refused to give back didn’t help.

Apparently his red cloak was more for aesthetic than function. Like those shoes Wilbur had woken up with, now long since discarded.

“You know,” Phil said, “I already planned to go to the nearest village. I could get you a proper coat, if you want. I’m definitely getting Wilbur better clothes. I’m sure a tailor there could make an identical copy of your current one- just, you know. One that won’t have you freeze your ass off.”

“What do you mean proper clothes? These work just fine, Phil,” his son protested and gestured between the two of them, sweaters and coats, “It’s not as cold as Technoblade thinks.”

“It’s not even officially winter, Will,” he replied, “it will get _much_ colder.”

Wilbur sputtered. Honestly, he should have known how seasons worked. Not only had Will passed through several biomes, but he also read about literally anything he could get his hands on. Unlike Technoblade, who had claimed a book on tactics and strategies as his own and was very much refusing to share it- or read any of the books Wilbur had attempted to trade with to get a glimpse. 

“Why.”

Phil blinked and looked towards Technoblade and promptly had to bite back a guffaw. He looked _disgusted_ , more so than the time Wilbur had decided to harass him with smelly socks. Which was certainly impressive, as those had been _rank_. Enough so that Phil had to press one hand against his mouth to keep the laughter inside.

It did not make Technoblade look any less disgusted.

“Why what, mate?” he finally got out, once he felt somewhat in control. 

“Why live here. It’s cold. And bad. And awful. You said you travelled a lot. Why not live by warmth? It makes no sense.”

“Phil said seasonal changes are the best,” Wilbur cut in before Phil could even try to reply, “and it was very warm when we got here. Besides, you’re from here, aren’t you, Techno?”

“Techno _blade_.” 

“Technoblaaaade.”

“Will with two Ls.”

Wilbur glowered. Technoblade scowled. They both looked absolutely ridiculous; Wilbur was knee deep in snow and sinking deeper and doing nothing about it, Technoblade looked like a particularly angry ball of lint. Phil cleared his throat. 

“I enjoy seeing time pass in the shape of seasons,” he said, “and I mean it, dude. I can get you a more functional copy of your cape. No problem.”

“What do I pay with,” Technoblade replied, not turning his glare away from Wilbur. Will, who Phil could see was slowly forming a snowball in his hands. He needed gloves.

Nothing, Phil could say. Which was true; he really didn’t want payment. Didn’t need it, not really, so it would be dishonest to demand payment for something Phil likely would do no matter what Technoblade said.

But Technoblade had yet to fold when it came to certain questions. Became defensive or shut down when asked- who or what had hurt him? Why was he so scared of death? How far away was his little spot of first awakening? 

And the questions Phil would never ask, but still held within. Such as why Technoblade felt the need for armor at all times of day; armor Phil had yet to let him put back on because of his wounds, armor he wanted to repair, anyway, before giving it all back. It was cracked and broken and dented. It would do more harm than good. Armor that had already seen too much which made him worry the same way he always worried for Will. 

He looked towards the bare bones of their future home.

“How about when you are all healed up, you help us build the house?” he suggested. 

There was a long pause. He could practically _feel_ the surprised delight rolling off of Wilbur in waves, because despite the constant bickering, Wilbur _did_ enjoy Technoblade’s company. They both did. 

“For a _cape?”_ Technoblade cut into the silence. 

“A cape that will keep you warm.” 

“Build a house for a _cape_.”

“Could also see it as payment for everything else,” he said, and watched Technoblade finally turn towards him, scowling furiously, ignoring the possible threat of Wilbur behind him. Phil offered a smile. “You don’t have to, you know. You just seem like someone who doesn’t like owing favors. Besides, we like your company.”

“Seems fake.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” 

They considered each other; Phil, relaxed and leaning against the well with his arms crossed. Technoblade, tense and ridiculous with his many layers.

“Fine,” the new soul finally said, “deal. But it has to be _exactly_ the same as mine, just warmer-”

_Thump_.

Phil looked down at the lump of snow by his feet. More scattered than not, but still recognizable. He snickered and looked up at Wilbur, who grinned back. 

“You missed, son.”

“It’s not my fault,” Will said, “I was aiming for Techno, but he’s too short.”

Technoblade sent him a _look_. 

“Bruh.” 

“You _are_. You’re itty bitty tiny, just a speck, it’s impossible to hit you, that’s how short you are,” Wilbur insisted, shit eating grin spreading, eyes glinting as he bent down to get more snow, “but let me try again.”

“You are forgetting something, Wilbur,” the younger soul said, stalking closer. How he managed to do so with how bundled up he was, Phil didn’t know. There was even an air of _danger_ around him. 

“Oh yeah?”

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“Please, as if I am sca--!” 

Wilbur’s sentence was transformed into a high-pitched scream as Technoblade tackled him to the ground, a cloud of snow exploding around them. The screaming did not stop; the difference was that it was also accompanied by a surprisingly menacing, monotone laugh now.

Phil laughed and groaned all at once and tilted his head back to look at the clouds above. 

“I swear, if you fucking idiots tear his stitches…” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


They did. Phil was not surprised.

He put them on mending duty, which would no doubt end up in lumpy socks and mismatched threads standing out against their clothes. But it had them whine and complain, and that was good enough for him. 

The torn stitches were not too bad, however. Technoblade barely needed them.

But it was the principle of things. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You know,” Phil said a week later as he tied up his boots, double checked his bags and scratched at his head in thought, “you’re healed enough you could come with me to the village. As long as we don’t walk too quickly.” 

Technoblade looked up from his book, pretending that he had not been enviously eyeing Phil as he got ready. The weeks Technoblade had stayed with them had been kind in that sense; had given Phil enough time to decipher the tiny changes to Technoblade’s face. It had taught him a few things about the younger soul that he otherwise would not have picked up on, as it was not something Technoblade himself would have told any of them.

One of the things being that Technoblade was _horribly_ awkward.

Not in the sense he made things awkward, not really. Wilbur was the one who would say the weirdest shit, utterly serious, bringing everything to a halt as the rest of the world tried to process what kind of fuckery he had just uttered. No, Technoblade was awkward in a very different kind of way. Instead of making everyone _else_ feel horribly out of place, the younger soul only made himself suffer. 

He did not ask for things. He would rather sit and wait for someone to notice, and then realize that was a stupid thing to do; but by then he had waited for so long that bringing it up would make him seem stupid. Once Phil had picked up on _that_ , things had gotten easier. Mostly because he could actually relate to that, compared to whatever the hell Wilbur’s brain had going on. 

Though in Phil’s case, it had been more about pride. For Technoblade it truly seemed to be a genuine dislike of being a bother. 

“What about Wilbur?” he asked, nothing but a tiny twitch to his ears to reveal his feelings. 

“Depends on him. Was gonna have him watch you. But if you’re coming with, he can make his own decision.” Even if saying that made Phil’s skin _crawl_. Wilbur still refused to wear armor, despite everything. Even refused a scarf around his neck, despite the growing cold of winter. The thought of leaving him alone made Phil want to stretch out his wings and cover Wilbur up, hide him away from the rest of the world.

Which was, of course, exactly why it _had_ to be said out loud. 

Technoblade grunted. Looked back down at his book. Previously pristine, it had begun to show some wear and tear. The loving kind, where fingers had rubbed at the pages and made the spine soft and a little bit cracked from having bent so many times. 

“I suppose I can come with you, to make certain that my cloak looks perfect,” Technoblade finally said, neutral, closing the book and carefully tucking it away in a hiding spot. Phil knew that Wilbur knew where it was; but they both let Technoblade pretend that his book was still safe from him.

It wasn’t pretend, really. Wilbur would never touch the thing without permission. Not anymore, not after weeks upon weeks of bickering that had grown familiar and fond and with a minimum amount of death glares even when tugs at pink hair became a common occurrence.  
  


“Of course, it makes sense,” Phil agreed with a grin, watched as Technoblade got to his feet, still a little stiff but not enough to be worrisome. “Get ready and I will go ask Will what he wants.”

  
“Two L’s?” 

“Two L’s.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, there he is,” Phil teased and reached up to ruffle Wilbur’s hair. His hand was smacked away before it could reach, though Will’s eyes were warm despite it and the scowl on his face. “You want to come with us, Will? Taking Technoblade with me to the village.”

“I’m _not_ going to babysit him? What? Is widdle Techno all grown up?”

“I beat you with stitches,” Technoblade flatly said, “I will do it again.”

“Neither of you will do that. I’m _not_ doing your stitches again and neither of you are good enough at mending shit for me to let you both near our socks ever again.” 

“Philza, you could always _not_ have us mend shit then,” Wilbur pointed out. His eyes were big and innocent and naive. Utterly fake. “In fact, no more punishment ever sounds good, doesn’t it?”

Phil jabbed him in the side.

“Ah, fuck!” 

  
“You coming with or not, Will?”

“Yes, _fine_ , I am. I want more books.”

“Agreed.”

  
“Wha- Techno? Techno-one-book? You want more?” Wilbur asked, delighted. Technoblade grunted as Wilbur threw one arm over his shoulder, pulling him close. “You're going to join me, huh? Build that library?”

“We are _not_ building a library first, Will.”

“Techno wants a library, Phil. Look at him! You can’t say no to those eyes.”

Phil looked at the utterly blank, disinterested face of Technoblade. Who was still letting Wilbur manhandle him. 

“Yes,” Phil wryly said, “you are right. Can’t deny those eyes.”

“Told you! So, Techno, what books do you want?”

“Not any about the reproduction cycle of fish.”

Phil snorted a laugh at Wilbur’s spluttered defense.

“C’mon, you two, I want to get there before lunch.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Why aren’t you wearing armor.”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“That sounds stupid.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes and walked faster, long legs easily letting him pull ahead of them. The grass swayed in the wind, knee-high and rustling with every step, yellow, brown and brittle from the winter’s touch. Phil was glad he had thought to make sure they all wore anti-tick charms, as minor as they were. Hardly worth the pull of magic. But experience had taught both him and Wilbur that the waste of it for this endeavor was not, in fact, a waste at all. 

“I don’t like that you are the only one wearing any,” Technoblade told Phil, face blank but one hand playing with said charm hanging around his neck. “I would like to wear mine.”

“It’s still broken, mate.”

“Because you haven’t fixed it.”

“Yup,” he agreed. Rolled his shoulders to let his wings out and stretch, groaned at the feel of it. They had left the woods behind some time now and there was nothing but open fields around them, meaning there was no risk of hitting his wings against any unfortunate branches. “Takes time.”

“That’s Philza talk for ‘I am stalling’!” Wilbur called out, and Phil would call him a traitor except for the fact that he hadn’t been subtle about it, anyway. Technoblade didn’t look like it was news to him either. “Armor sucks, anyway!”

“I like having protection, Wilbur,” was the flat reply. “I like having metal between me and pointy things. You should try it.”

“Didn’t fucking help me at all, actually.”

Phil winced.

“Will.”

“I- yeah, sorry.” 

Technoblade frowned. Just a bit, just enough, and in a way that spoke of worry and something more. 

“You have been hurt?”

“Died,” Wilbur corrected, and Philza carefully focused on their surroundings, on the way the wind brushed against his feathers, “Arrow to the throat.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The sun shone bright. For a long moment, there was only silence between them as they walked, unsaid things hovering in the air. Wilbur slowed down until he walked with them again, Technoblade safely between the both of them. 

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” Wilbur said. 

Phil smiled.

“... same,” Technoblade replied, and when Phil glanced his way he saw pink on his cheeks, maroon eyes not looking at either of them. 

“I’m glad you’re staying,” Phil said and let his shoulder bump against Technoblade’s. 

The pink grew stronger.

“I am,” Technoblade agreed, and they all shared a smile, Wilbur’s small and delighted, Phil’s stretching into a grin. Technoblade’s almost shy, almost grumpy, but still a smile of disbelief, of something. 

They still did not know what or who had nearly killed him. Perhaps they never would, or perhaps Technoblade would one day share the information without being asked for it in the first place. 

Above them, the sun shone bright. Around them, the grass swayed and the cold wind swept past them, teasing at their hair and clothes. In the far distance, Philza could see the village ahead of them. 

They didn’t need to know everything.

The most important thing was that Technoblade was staying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a bit, but here it is! I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as you liked the first one.   
> Thank you <3

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first time writing for this fandom and I do hope it's not too ooc! I do apparently hate myself as I started with the one I find hardest to write, Wilbur, and not, say, Tommy or Techno lmao.   
> Please keep in mind I'm writing off of the characters of DSMP, not of the players. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3


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